


Small Spaces

by starrymellie



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 13:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrymellie/pseuds/starrymellie
Summary: “You're not saying…” Ryan let out an awkward little snort. “You're notscared, are you?”“What? Pshh.No.”“Oh my god,” Ryan said teasingly, “you're totally scared.”orRyan and Shane investigate an abandoned brothel in the Midwest with a sickening past. Shane, contrary to popular belief, is not fearless.





	Small Spaces

“Okay—uh—two minutes with the spirit box down in the hole?” Ryan asked, a lilt of anxiety in his voice. His boots thudded thunderously on the rickety basement stairs. The centuries-old wood groaned under his weight.

“Yup,” Shane affirmed, trailing behind him and trying his best to tread lightly. He knew the stairs _probably_ wouldn't collapse, as TJ had managed to get down them first with his heavy camera equipment, but Shane had no intention of being the straw that broke the camel’s back.

“This spot is supposed to be one of the most active areas in the building.” Ryan informed him nervously, coming to a halt near the base of the stairs and fiddling with the equipment on his belt.

Shane nodded absently and peered into the small, dark room, if he could even call it that. It was nothing more than a crawlspace, really, a tiny, oddly-shaped cabinet tucked away underneath the rotting wooden stairs. They stood in the decaying basement of the Old Franklin Inn, a historic Indiana building which, according to Ryan, used to be a quite corrupt bordello, back in the day.

“Yup,” he responded again, tearing his gaze away from the tiny square of pitch blackness carved out of the side of the stairs. “So, what makes this little cubby hole so haunted?”

“Well,” Ryan said, “they apparently used to make the ‘bad ones’ stay in there for a few days as a punishment, remember? It only opens from the outside.”

“Ah, that's right,” Shane shuddered a little, recalling Ryan’s recap of the building’s history. “And this is where they found that girl—”

“—who died, yeah. They just put her in there and never let her out. It’s unclear if they just forgot about her or if it was intentional.” Ryan paused and bit his lip. “She was supposedly in there for weeks before they found her body. She died from dehydration.”

“Allegedly,” Shane mumbled.

“Allegedly,” Ryan agreed. “I couldn't find any legal name on record, only the nickname that goes along with the legend: Junebug. So we can't actually confirm that she really died here...but I think she did.” He shivered.

“Well, that's just lovely. I hope you haven't just ruined the first Harry Potter movie for me forever, Ryan.”

“What?” Ryan wheezed.

“I mean—y’know—in the first movie, when he's living with the Dursleys, and they put him in that cupboard under the stairs, and—” Ryan was still laughing, flapping his free hand perhaps to signify he understood. “Yeah, y’know what, never mind.”

Ryan continued to giggle for a little bit, but he still thrummed with nervous energy, casting his gaze around warily and shifting on his feet. After a minute, he was back to gnawing on his lip uneasily.

“Dude, I really don't like it down here,” he said, like he did. “I'm getting some really bad vibes.”

“Yeah, that would be all the dust, cobwebs, and black mold you're currently inhaling,” Shane quipped, wrinkling his nose against the mildewy scent of the cellar. “Maybe some rat droppings, too.”

“Ew, dude, gross.” Ryan finally managed to unclip the spirit box from his belt and sort of fiddled with it for a moment, shifting it between his hands. He looked up at Shane with that pitiful, scared look and _goddammit_ , he knew what the fucker was going to say before the words even left his mouth.

“Would you mind going first?” Ryan beseeched him, holding out the spirit box to Shane like some sort of offertory token.

Shane sighed.

“Yeah, sure.”

He stepped forward and snatched the accursed device from Ryan’s hands, turning it over and sniffing with disgust.

“God, I hate this thing.”

“Yeah, well, don't discount it,” Ryan snipped. “It's provided some of the most compelling evidence we've gotten on this show, to date.”

“‘Compelling,’ he says,” Shane replied snidely, throwing out some air quotes. Behind the camera a few feet away, TJ snickered silently.

“Oh, come on! Remember ‘brown and white?’” Ryan was hilariously indignant. It was always a riot to see him get so defensive over a shitty piece of electronics.

Shane rolled his eyes and conceded, “Okay, I still don't think that was legit, but it was kinda cool.”

Ryan huffed and gave him a fond but determined look, as if to say _This isn't over, Madej._ His eyes darted around the room again as the banter died down and he was once again forced back into the present situation where he seemed to have more pressing things to worry about, like little prostitute ghosties wanting to get nasty with him.

Shane crouched down in front of the dark crawlspace and stared into it again, feeling a sense of dread squirm deep in his stomach like a black snake. He never did like small spaces. He would be fine, though, he was sure. Logically, there wasn't anything to actually be afraid of in there, besides getting more cobwebs in his hair and maybe spiders.

“So, what do I do if she wants to get down ‘n’ dirty with me?”

Ryan balked. “ _Huh_?”

“Y’know,” Shane shrugged, trying to ease his nerves with a joke, “you said this was a bordello, right? So what if there's a Little Miss Ghost in there and she wants to get freaky?”

Ryan made a sound of exasperation and sort of chuckled in disbelief, which quickly turned into a more full-bodied laugh.

“Oh my _god_ , Shane.” He shook his head and continued cracking up.

Ryan laughed more when he was nervous or scared, and Shane wasn't complaining. He had a cute laugh, Shane thought, in the most platonic way that he could think a laugh was _cute_. It was this bright little wheezy giggle that always lit up the room like a blinking cluster of fireflies on a warm summer night. Just hearing it made Shane momentarily forget his uneasiness, the stench just a tiny bit more bearable, the sounds of rats scuffling just a tiny bit less disgusting, the darkness just a tiny bit less oppressive. Then Shane thought of cramming himself into that small space again and the miserableness of the place came rushing back to him, assaulting his senses all at once. Shane blinked a few times and made a face. Rude.

“Alright, so, two minutes,” Ryan repeated. “One minute of silence, and one with the box on.”

Shane stood up. The belly boa was back. It seemed to have a firm grip on his small intestine.

“Is something wrong?” said Ryan, and he looked uneasy too, but now with a layer of concern overlaying his fear.

“Do you really think I’m gonna fit in there?” Shane blurted out.

He'd been going for sarcastic and derisive, hoping that Ryan would agree with the rhetorical question and let him pass on this one, but his words had come out smaller than he'd hoped, sounding instead like a legitimate question. Ryan cocked his head.

“Uh...yeah?” He bent over and shone his flashlight into the cupboard, highlighting a mosaic of spider webs and dust clinging to the inside of the dark, termite-infested wood panels. “It might be a tight fit for a Sasquatch like you, but you can definitely fit in there if you scrunch up a little.” Ryan then demonstrated this, curling up into a crouched ball on the ground like a little roly-poly.

“Maybe it's easy for you, you fucking dwarf,” Shane muttered, and Ryan scoffed, mocking him under his breath. Something about eight-foot limbs. Shane wasn't listening.

The space was rectangular and looked maybe only three feet by four feet by three feet—and that was a _generous_ estimate. Shane swallowed and found his throat dry. The spirit box was growing slick in his sweaty grip, so he switched hands surreptitiously.

Ryan straightened up, and Shane guessed that he probably still looked apprehensive, because Ryan just kept giving him that concerned look.

“Seriously, man, what's up? I know it's pretty gross, but we've done much grosser.”

Shane had to agree with that. Just remembering the filth covering _everything_ at Pennhurst Asylum still sent a shiver up his spine to that day. But at least there, he wasn't required to trap himself in a tiny, dark _cupboard_ for an extended amount of time.

“What if I can't get out?”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I'll let you out after two minutes, you dingbat. I'll still be able to hear you in there. And I'll even help you untangle those noodle limbs of yours if you're having issues clambering out.”

“What if something happens to you and TJ while I'm in there?” Shane knew he sounded ridiculous, but something within him compelled him to ask. “What if a...ghost eats your brains?”

“We’re dealing with spirits here, not zombies,” Ryan said, sort of smirking.

“Well, I mean, what if you get distracted by some noise and you and TJ go to investigate and you leave me in there?” Shane asked. Now, that was a legitimate concern.

“What? I wouldn't do that,” Ryan said, furrowing his brow and looking offended. “I'll be right outside the door the whole time, ready to open it if anything happens.”

“‘ _I heard a whisper._ ’” Shane disguised the nervous tremor in his voice by pitching it up into a falsetto mockery of Ryan.

“Shut up,” Ryan said bluntly, and he honestly did not look very amused.

Shane was silent for a while, back to staring at the cupboard. When he glanced back at Ryan, he found the guy staring at him with an expression torn between perplexion and semi-realization. He looked like he was discovering something about Shane that he'd never found before, but Shane wasn't sure he wanted his friend to discover anything like this.

“You know,” he started, looking anywhere but Ryan, “when I was a little kid I once accidentally locked myself in a coat closet.”

To Shane’s chagrin, Ryan’s mouth twitched with a smile. He knew where Shane was going with this, and thought it was fucking _funny_. Well, Shane supposed, maybe he had the right, for all the times Shane had mercilessly mocked _his_ fears.

“It was hours before anyone found me,” he continued, actually having to shake himself at the memory. The worst part about this was how that horrid memory seemed to currently be flooding his senses in vivid, 20/20 recollection. He recalled with astounding clarity how he'd cried for help for what had seemed like days, how he'd pounded his little fists on the door until they bruised, how every coat that brushed his face or his arm was the sickly smooth touch of a faceless monster in the dark. The walls had closed in, the air had grown thin, and he had actually worked himself into such hysterics that he’d passed out and had miraculously woken up in his bed with his mother doting on him.

Obviously, Shane didn't expect to faint in this cupboard, because he was no longer a helpless toddler—he was a 31-year-old man who was resolutely unafraid of ghosts and ghouls, and the dust and bugs wouldn't kill him—but a traumatic childhood experience was just that, and, well. He could at least admit to himself that he was a bit claustrophobic. He hadn't had an attack in years, but he'd been averse to small spaces all his life.

Ryan laughed, then, which irritated Shane immensely, but he really wasn't in any position to tell him it wasn't stupid. Because it really, really was.

When Ryan's laughter died down again, he looked at Shane, and upon seeing his grave expression, gave him a calculating look. Shane shifted under his gaze, feeling uncomfortable as Ryan silently dissected him like one of his preposterous theories.

“You're not saying…” Ryan let out an awkward little snort. “You're not _scared_ , are you?”

“What? Pshh. _No_.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan said teasingly, “you're totally scared.”

“You're one to talk, Mr. I’m-Afraid-of-Ghosts.”

“Hey! You're totally freaked by that dusty old cabinet, just admit it!”

“Remind me again who screamed like he was being fucking slaughtered when a flashlight turned on.”

“Really? You're really gonna bring that up now?”

Shane shifted on his feet and looked at Ryan. Ryan stared back, his eyes glimmering dark in the low light.

“There's nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, in a taunting voice that implied there was _everything_ to be ashamed of.

That was it. Shane refused to be mocked by Ryan Bergara, a grown man who had almost pissed his pants because of a damn rubber blue ball.

“Fucking—fine. Gimme it.” Shane snapped.

“You're—you're still holding it, dude.” Ryan nodded at the spirit box in Shane’s tightly clenched hand. He at least had the decency to look a little sorry. Just a little, though.

Flipping on the small light attached to his chest rig and his handheld camera, Shane took in a deep breath through his mouth and crawled down into the space before he could chicken out. Setting the camera into one of the corners he was facing, he maneuvered himself inside. It was so tiny that he had to hunch over even when seated on the ground, and his nose rested in between his knees.

“Two minutes, big guy,” Ryan said again, before he swung the door shut with a rusty creak and the lock slipped into place with a heavy _click_.

Shane immediately hated everything about this. The way he was hunched over himself limited his light, but there was just enough so he could dimly see the cramped, painfully small space around him. Barely lifting his head a couple inches above his knees, it brushed the top of the cabinet. He clenched his free hand into a fist and tried to keep his brain from kicking into overdrive with the grounding pain of his fingernails in his palm. _The walls aren't closing in, I'm not going to die in here, there's enough air, I'm not going to run out of air. It's fine._

_It's fine, it's fine, it's fine._

“Shane?” Ryan called, sounding much more muffled through the wood than Shane had expected. “How is it in there?”

“Tight,” Shane replied, trying not to think about how his throat was trying to constrict. Ryan’s faint voice brought him back to earth, if only slightly.

“You gonna turn on the spirit box? It's been, like, fifteen seconds already. The more time you waste in the beginning, the more time you have to stay in there, bud.”

_Fuck._

“Y-Yeah, okay,” Shane said, cringing at the tremble in his voice. He fumbled with the switch, cursing.

If the spirit box’s godawful static noise could echo and expand to fill a large room, in the cupboard it was deafening. Shane instinctively went to cover his ears, until he untucked his arms and realized he _couldn't_ , his elbows scrubbing painfully against the walls surrounding him. And they were definitely getting closer, and it was definitely getting harder to breathe, and _fuck_. Shane stared down at the screaming spirit box and just grit his teeth against the noise and his panic.

“H-Hey, uh, hey, Junebug. Is there a Miss Junebug in here with me tonight? Little miss June?” His voice sounded small and weak to his own ears, drowned out by the din of the spirit box. He couldn't hear anything at all over the noise, and Ryan probably couldn't hear him either. Even if he screamed, nobody would probably hear him. His breaths were coming noticeably faster now.

“—es,” the spirit box spit out.

“Y-Yeah? Was that a ‘yes?’” Shane tried to shift and bumped his head against the ceiling, his back pressed against another wall.

His heart was convulsing, contracting, hummingbird-fast. _Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump._

“Wanna, uh, wanna tell me the—the color of my, ah, my hair?” Shane gasped in between quickening breaths. It was really hard to breathe. _Fuck. Shit. Fucking shit._

He hated that he sounded scared in this situation; he wasn't afraid of the fucking ghost, he was afraid of the quickly dwindling air supply in this stupid fucking cupboard. Shane’s hands were shaking; his whole body was shaking. He set the spirit box down—his grip was quickly becoming unsteady.

“A-ap—ack—shh—dr—own,” the box ejected between radio channels.

“That—That sounded m-more like ‘drown’ than ‘brown,’ b-but sure,” Shane wheezed nervously, more lost air than anything.

The box was right, it was fucking right, Shane was drowning, he was gasping for breath, and it wouldn't come; his lungs wouldn't expand, and something dark and stinging and furious filled them instead of air, like he was breathing in a swarm of wasps.

“Who, _fuck_ , who killed you, uh, Juneb—Junebug?”

Shane’s heart thumped aggressively and erratically like a caged animal inside his ribs. The walls were still getting closer. Something landed on the back of Shane’s neck and crept down into his collar. _Spider._ It was definitely a fucking spider. He was shaking so hard his teeth were clicking against each other in his mouth.

Suddenly, the spirit box fizzled loudly and let out an ear-piercing electronic whine. Shane, taken off-guard, screamed and jolted, whacking his head against the ceiling, which was _definitely_ not that low when he first got in here, and pressing his body against the back wall, which was _definitely_ closer than it had been before. Something must have jostled his chest light in the wrong way, because it abruptly blinked out, plunging him into darkness. A wave of dizzying nausea washed over Shane like a rolling tide. Sweat beaded on his neck and forehead.

“EEA—TH—AAH—” the spirit box slipped back into its radio channel dashing, but its noise seemed magnified, amplified somehow. Shane wasn't sure if it was really louder than before, or if the adrenaline making him hypersensitive was just directly working against his common sense.

“AFH—NN— _MAN LIKE—YOU_ ,” the box suddenly spit out, chilling and admittedly as distinct as Shane had ever heard it. And just like that, the box fizzled again and shut itself off.

In the abrupt silence, all Shane could hear were his gasping, shallow breaths and the furious beating of his own heart. It was too small, it was too dark. Too small, too dark. Small, dark, _small, dark._

“Shane?” Ryan timidly called. Fucking _Ryan_. If Shane ever got out of here, he was going to kill him. Right now, though, he was just focused on not running out of air, a fight that he would surely lose. _Fuck. SHIT!_ Thirty-six cubic feet of air, and he was positive he had wasted nearly all of it.

“Did the box malfunction?” Ryan asked, when Shane gave no response. “You only had it going for 46 seconds.”

“Y-Yeah,” Shane gasped out, his words more air than vibration. He wasn't sure if Ryan would even be able to hear him.

“Alright, well, just turn out your light and be silent now. I’ll let you out in a minute.”

Shane tried to open his mouth to speak again, but all that came out was a low whimper from the back of his throat. His throat felt like a pinhole. His breaths were so rapid and shallow that they all ran into each other. It was so fucking dark, formless horrors creeping at the edges of his vision and spawning on the insides of his eyelids. His chest tightened and his eyes stung and Shane belatedly realized he was crying, tears dripping down his face in the darkness. Christ on a fucking cracker, he was really losing it.

The light was already off, he was already silent. But if he'd only been in there for one minute, he was positive that he wouldn't, _couldn't_ last another. His lungs heaved and shuddered in his chest like two dying birds. He was shaking, trembling apart, like he was held together at the seams by just thin, breakable threads, a useless marionette. His heart pounded against his sternum like a battering ram.

“Ryan,” he hissed out, desperate. Too quiet, it was _too quiet!_

There was no more air. This was it. There was no more air, and he was going to die here. His breath hitched on a sob and he couldn't move, he couldn't speak, he couldn't breathe. He was going to fucking throw up. He thought of Junebug’s corpse curled up right where he sat now, rank and emaciated. He was going to fucking _vomit_. He retched and let out another sob.

The door swung open. Shane could barely see anything through his haze of fear, but he was sure Ryan was sticking his face in like an idiot.

“Shane, buddy, you okay? I thought I heard—” Ryan saw Shane’s face and stopped short.

“Ohmygod,” said Ryan, all one word, like someone had punched it out of him with a swift blow to the stomach.

After a few seconds, Ryan reached in and grabbed Shane by the shoulders. Suddenly there was even less space, it was even more restricting, Ryan was _right there_ but his touch was burning like acid and this was _worse, it was worse._ It made Shane want to scream, so he did—a foreign, terrified wail that his panic-addled brain had a hard time connecting with himself.

Upon hearing Shane scream, Ryan shot back, releasing him for a moment, but then gritted his teeth and grabbed him again, hauling him out of the cabinet and not releasing him until he was lying on the basement floor, legs stretched out at awkward angles. Ryan propped him up against the stairs, crouched down, and boggled at him, his bewildered, terrified face the epitome of helplessness.

Shane was frozen. He still had no ability to move, speak, or breathe. Everything was too much, and the nausea was building and building into this sickening crescendo, and someone was asking if he was okay through murky water, and—Shane threw up.

“Oh man, are you okay—woooahh _okay_.”

He became unstuck too late—he had puked all over Ryan’s shoes, who had flinched back a little too late. It was disgusting. Once Shane realized he had regained control of his limbs, he curled in on himself and shook like he was freezing. His eyes wouldn't stop leaking.

“I can't breathe,” he gasped out. Shane knew Ryan was right in front of him, but his eyes wouldn't properly focus on him, like they were shaking in their sockets. “I can't breathe, I can't breathe.”

“Hey, Shane, buddy, please look at me,” Ryan was saying, his hands reached out and fluttering but unsure where they should land. One of them brushed Shane’s face and he flinched away, batting it down frantically.

“Don't touch me,” he gasped, “don't—don't fuckin’ touch me.”

“Okay, fuck, s-sorry,” Ryan apologized, and he was back to fluttering. “Just, uh, try to breathe with me, okay?”

Shane watched Ryan’s chest as he took slow, purposeful breaths, in and out, in and out. Shane tried his best to match them, breathing through his mouth and sniffling, until after what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, he finally felt he could breathe again. But it was all too much and he'd fucked up so badly and those emotions of fear and panic still lingered, now horribly joined by humiliation and shame at ruining the episode and making a fool of himself in front of everyone. Shane grit his teeth and looked down as his eyes stung and the tip of his nose burned.

“Hey, hey, buddy, Shane, buddy, hey,” Ryan was babbling, and Shane's face crumpled into a sob.

“Aw jeez, don't cry big guy, shit, oh god...”

Shane wanted so badly to stop, knowing full well he looked like an idiot baby with fat tears rolling down his face, but in that moment, everything was involuntary. He couldn't. Ryan shuffled closer.

“Do you need a—can I—can I hug you now?” he asked, hesitant.

Shane gave the briefest of nods and within an instant found himself being tugged forward and wrapped in a strong embrace. Ryan’s arms enveloped his lanky frame and his hands spread out across Shane’s back protectively. He just kept mumbling reassurances and apologies into Shane’s ear, his voice catching a little like he was crying too. As he started to calm down, Shane realized that he'd never received a full-bodied hug like this from Ryan before. He wasn't really much of a...hug guy. It was nice, though. Shane was once again in a contained space, but the space between Ryan’s hands and his warm, sighing chest wasn't restricting in the slightest. It was warm, it was safe. This was good.

Once Ryan was satisfied that Shane had sufficiently exhausted himself, he helped him stand, both of them staggering to their feet. TJ handed a water bottle to Shane on his way out, who took a hearty swig, panting. Shane glanced at the darkened cupboard as Ryan reached inside to grab the equipment, and flipped it off.

“Fuck you, Franklin Inn,” he rasped, his voice still a little gravelly and congested. Ryan straightened up and swung an arm around Shane’s shoulders, joining him as he led them both back up the stairs.

“Yeah, _FUCK YOU!_ ” Ryan called out into the basement, with much more gusto. Shane cracked a smile.

Ryan led Shane outside into the open night air, where the whole crew was already packing away the equipment into the vans, TJ having presumably informed everyone already that they were cutting the shoot short. Good man.

Shane tilted his head back and took in needy gulps of breath, relieved. He never thought he'd miss the smell and taste of fresh air so much. Ryan took in several deep breaths himself, looking more relaxed, like he always did right after leaving a location.

“Man, it was really musty in there, wasn't it?” he remarked, a little breathless. Shane nodded.

They were silent for a while, just standing on the inn steps. Shane was hyper-aware of Ryan’s arm still wrapped around him, a strange weight across his shoulders.

“Hey, I—I’m really sorry for what happened in there...and for puking on your shoes,” Shane said haltingly, tensing slightly, suddenly feeling embarrassed all over again.

Ryan released Shane so he could face him fully, guilt and shock written plainly across his features. He was pretending he didn't care, but his feet were squelching in his shoes. It was gross.

“What? Are you crazy, man? _I'm_ the one who should be apologizing!”

Shane looked away.

“I shouldn't have—shouldn’t have forced you to go in there. That wasn't okay.”

“You didn't force me,” Shane said.

TJ beckoned them over to the cars, indicating that they were ready to leave. Shane started walking quickly, Ryan struggling to keep in step.

“Yeah, but I was giving you shit about it. And that was...really shitty of me,” he explained, walking closer to Shane’s side than normal.

“I give you shit for not wanting to do things all the time,” Shane replied, feigning indifference. “It's cool.”

“It's _not_.”

They arrived at the curb. Shane stopped at the passenger side door of Ryan’s car and looked down at Ryan, who was giving him a pleading, sorrowful expression. It looked wrong on his face. Ryan was supposed to be happy when they left a location, he was supposed to be proud, relieved. He was supposed to be smiling.

“I'm _sorry_ ,” Ryan said, almost desperately. Shane nodded at him and got inside the car.

Ryan got into the driver's seat and shut the door, then just sat there for a while, not starting the car or anything. Shane stole a glance at him. He looked tense.

“I really am,” he said. Then he started the car and pulled onto the street.

“Alright,” said Shane, tipping his head back and shutting his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Shane laid on his back on top of his bed back in the hotel room, staring at the ceiling. He had just wanted to collapse when they returned, but Ryan had forced him to take a shower and brush his teeth by refusing to clean himself up until Shane did first. Which, seriously, what kind of fucked up bargaining was that? But Ryan could be stubborn when he wanted to be, and Shane hadn't wanted to make him feel worse about the situation, so he had complied.

And now here he was, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hiss of the water pipes as Ryan showered at one in the morning. Shane sighed and shut his eyes for a moment, letting the world spin away. Panicking like that earlier had really taken a lot out of him. Ryan hadn't spoken much since they’d cut the shooting short and left the inn, but if he wanted to have some sort of bros-only heart-to-heart after his shower, Shane wasn't sure he’d really be up for it. The water shut off.

Ryan stepped out moments later in just his boxers, skin still steaming and hair still dripping. It wasn't sexy or anything—he looked exhausted and drained, his face pale and his posture slumped as he shuffled over to his luggage to retrieve his pajamas. Shane wondered how much of Ryan’s haggardness he was personally responsible for, messing with him and scaring the shit out of him at every turn. He stared resolutely at the ceiling while Ryan got dressed and counted the water stains in the plaster.

_One, two, three…_

“Shane,” Ryan said from across the room. Shane grunted.

_Four, five...—that one kinda looks like the Millenium Falcon!—six…_

“Shane,” Ryan said again, sitting on the edge of his bed facing Shane. Shane rolled over and looked at him. The dim light from lamp on the nightstand between the beds threw the deep shadows under Ryan’s eyes into sharp relief with his colorless cheeks.

“Yeah?”

Ryan blinked at him and bit his lip. It appeared a little bloody, actually, from how much he'd been biting it. He looked unsure how to approach the conversation he wanted to have; he looked like he wanted to apologize again. Shane gave him a silent, challenging stare and watched Ryan’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.

“Shane…” he trailed off, again. He blinked down at his hands and then back up at Shane. “What happened back there?” Ryan’s gaze was wholly too intense for one in the morning.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Shane said, heaving out a sigh and rolling back onto his back. Why couldn't Ryan just leave it alone? He thought that what had _happened_ was perfectly clear.

“Okay, I know I'm gonna sound stupid when I say this, but I've gotta ask...it wasn't the ghost, was it?”

Shane spared a glance at Ryan, whose face was deadly serious, and that's what made him lose it. He cackled loudly and slapped his fist against the bedspread, because _of course_ Ryan would say that. Of course he would blame Shane’s crippling, lifelong fear on _ghosts_.

“Look at my face, Ryan,” Shane laughed incredulously. “Think about everything I've _ever_ told you about ghosts, then think about what you just said to me.”

Ryan went red in the face, all the way up to the tips of his ears, and it was infinitely preferable to his grim pallor from before.

“Listen! I told you I had to ask, okay?”

The way Ryan was getting all flustered was endearing, so Shane decided to humor him. He propped himself up on his elbows, wiping a faux tear from his eye.

“No, Ryan, it wasn't the ghost. I mean, thinking about someone biting the dust right where I was sitting was kind of creepy, but there were no ghosts in there, as far as I could tell.”

“The spirit box died,” Ryan pointed out.

“Batteries,” Shane retorted.

“I literally just changed them before this trip!” Ryan exclaimed. “You were there!”

Ryan was right. Shane _had_ been there. But still…

“Whatever. That's neither here nor there—batteries are shitty and are known to be shitty.”

“We’ll see about that when I get to analyze that audio,” Ryan huffed.

A chill of dread ran down Shane’s spine as he thought about Ryan listening to his stupid panic attack in HD studio quality.

“I don't wanna use that footage,” he said drily.

“But the spirit box—” Ryan protested. He looked like he understood, yet he still pushed his point. There it was: Shane wasn't the only hardheaded one between them.

“Please shut up about the damn spirit box for one _fucking second_ , Ryan,” Shane snapped, using his rare I’m-not-fucking-around voice that always made people shut up. Ryan shut up. Shane flopped back down onto the bed.

Okay, maybe that had been a little harsh. Shane looked at Ryan again, but the little guy didn't look hurt, rather, contemplative. They had been dancing around the elephant in the room.

“So, claustrophobia, huh?” Ryan brought it up eventually, and it was kind of funny how awkward and out of place he looked, talking about this.

“Yeah,” Shane replied, shutting his eyes for a moment and pinching his forehead. “Look, I'm sorry you had to deal with that. It's usually not that bad.”

Ryan took a breath like he was about to apologize for the twenty-third time in the past two hours, and Shane put up a finger.

“Don't say you're sorry again, Ryan. I don't wanna hear it.”

“Why won't you accept my apology?” Ryan sounded indignant.

“Because it's not your fault.”

“But it is!”

“Ryan, if it were your fault, I’d be pissed at you. And I'm not.” Shane sighed heavily. “Yeah, you were poking fun at me, but you had no idea I was going to react that way. I thought I'd be okay, and you didn't know that I wouldn't be. So, in short, we’re both idiots.”

“It's just—” Ryan shifted. “I feel like you were, like, throwing out hints at me that you weren't cool with it, and I picked up on those hints and just threw them in your face instead of listening to you.”

“Ryan, if I didn't do that exact thing you just described to _you_ every time we were on an investigation, we wouldn't have a damn show.”

Ryan laughed a little and got up, and _okay_ , now he was sitting on Shane’s bed.

“You pushing me to go out of my comfort zone and talk to some ghosts is way different than what happened tonight. And I just want to let you know that I won't ever do that to you again. Okay?” Ryan’s stare was still way too intense, but Shane held it.

“Okay.” Shane’s chest felt a little warm. It was sweet to know that Ryan cared so much about his wellbeing to get this point across.

“It's still stupid, though.” Shane looked down. “I ruined the episode.”

“ _Pshh_. Are you serious? The episode is totally fine. We've got a killer editing team, remember? And we got plenty of spooky footage before that, anyway. Don't sweat it.” Ryan considered Shane for a moment. “Hey, scoot over.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Just do it!”

Shane obliged, and Ryan laid down next to him in the double bed, worming his way underneath the covers. He tugged on the blanket incessantly until Shane got under it too, then wrapped an arm around him.

“Uh, Ryan? What're you doing?”

“You looked like you needed another hug. Now shut up before I change my mind,” Ryan mumbled. Shane twisted his neck back to see that Ryan’s face was blazing again and chuckled.

“You realize that you're practically spooning me right now, right, dude?”

“Shut up, Shane!” Ryan squeezed him tighter and buried his face into one of Shane’s pillows. It was cute.

After a few seconds, Ryan let go and the two of them just laid on their backs beside each other.

“Hey, Ryan,” Shane whispered, his tone serious. It was getting to that part of the night where it felt important to whisper, even though you weren't quite sure why you were doing it.

“Yeah?” Ryan whispered back.

Shane pointed. “D’ya think that water stain looks like the Millenium Falcon, or am I crazy?”

Ryan giggled and punched him in the arm. When Shane shut out the light, Ryan didn't move, and eventually his breaths evened out, signaling that he'd fallen asleep.

Shane finally let himself drift off, feeling heat radiate from Ryan’s slumbering body near his side. When it came down to it, he and Ryan both had their own stupid fears to deal with. Somehow, though, with Ryan softly snoring beside him now, Shane could breathe easier.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! feedback is greatly appreciated <3
> 
> my tumblr is @crappylittledemon if you wanna hmu!
> 
> this fic was in part inspired by a claustrophobic!shane oneshot written by spiritboard, which you can check out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13667640)!


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